End of the World Big
by RH Chello
Summary: It's the end of the world, Sammy's the new demon king, and Dean is stuck. Go figure. AU. Season 4 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

_'nother story, since I'm so bored. Enjoy it!_

* * *

One the eve of the Apocalypse, Dean slides into the Impala and floors it all the way to the west coast. No real conscious thought accompanies his sudden decision; he just needs to be somewhere where he won't be able to hear the gutted roars of, _"failure"_ ringing in his ears. He needs to be somewhere not here – anywhere will do – someplace _away_.

The Impala rumbles smoothly under his touch, the same constant murmur it has always been, all his life. It is meant to sooth and heal, pulling together the fabric of his soul when the weight of his existence becomes too much. This is his escape, a private paradise he retreats to in desperation. It should be enough – it had been enough in the days when everything was simple: family and the job – but the emptiness gouged into him is still there. The sing of the engine can't fill it today, and with the future looming ahead, Dean is sure the hollow within his chest will only grow until he is nothing more than a glazed shell. There are worse fates, surely; he's just too busy wasting energy on self pity to consider them. The way this bitter, screwed-to-hell fairy tale is turning out, that leaves him with plenty of other paths to choose from, none leading to the door marked "Happily-Ever-After".

A sticky end to a sticky life. Dean hasn't expected much else – Winchester curse and all that. Doesn't stop the sour bile from rising up his throat, daring him to choke. Sticky.

Dean screws his eyes against the yellow sun and tries to think of where he is headed. Location, location, location. That's all that matters, right?

The Grand Canyon certainly holds some kind of appeal – he's never been there on leisure time before, but then the tourists come to mind. The loud flocks of grinning tourists with their awed expressions and stupid, _stupid_ naivety. Too happy and smiling, wrapped close in coffins of innocence, clueless. He has secrets they couldn't even begin to fathom. To be in a place, trapped with the sheer _openness_ of their persons is something Dean doesn't think he can handle without managing not to implode. Or explode. Whichever is messier.

So safe, they think, those ignorant civilians. No idea of what is to come. It's just another day with the family, another photo for the vacation scrapbook. So many hopes, dreams, entire futures, all gathered together for the massacre. In his state of mind, Dean would be lucky to get past the state border unscathed.

This, ultimately, narrows his choices down to – a) public emotional breakdown, or b) calm, cool, and collected. If there is any question as to what he picks, you obviously don't know Dean Winchester.

Decision made; no Grand Canyon.

The sun is drooping wearily in the sky when clunky gravel gives way to a fast-cooling blanket of sand. His heavy boot sinks into the yielding grains and leaves a crooked dimple in the smooth dunes. He trudges across the shifting field, each crunching step weighty and heavier than the last, until the shock of icy foam soaks through the thick leather of his boots. His gaze draws to the burning halo shining like a beacon across the waves.

Dean has never been much of a nature-loving freak – save the whales, plant a flower, camp out in the middle of nowhere to keep a tree from being hauled out – that type of thing. He has more than enough on his plate without worrying over global warming or whatever other bull he won't live long enough to care about. It is always, _save Sammy,_ and _take care of the car_, and_ keep an eye on the suspicious beefy dude eyeing him from across the bar._ There is never time or energy available to spare on putting life on pause for just a second. He's never been offered the chance to take a quick breather between crises. Just boom, boom, boom, boom. Death would come like a well-deserved retirement from life, but Dean isn't the mopey, suicidal type. Leaving isn't ever an option.

Now that he's made the time to marvel, with the way the fading light glanced off the rippling water and sent dazzling colors through his retinas, Dean is beginning to think he's been missing out. Following that revelation comes an unexplainable sorrow that runs deep and mingles with old wounds he'd thought he's forgotten. An entire life's worth of simple wonders, never to be savored. Tomorrow will bring no reprieve, and he can't think of where to go from there.

A tiny spike of brightness is all that's left of the fiery sun, and with disappointingly little ceremony, that too winks out of existence, abandoning the clouds to their darkness. The strength suddenly seeps from his limbs with the fading of the tide, and he collapses into the wetness, splashing a bit in the damp mud. He can't bring himself to care about damaging the seat of his fraying jeans, but some part of him that is still John Winchester's son is grateful he'd thought to leave the leather jacket behind in the car. Dean reaches around his ragged knees to clasp his wrists, and rocks forward, squinting against the sea breeze and the salty air. It's quiet but for the soft rush of breaking waves and the crooning wind.

A lot has changed in a year. This spot is still the same, timeless postcard image it has always been, but a lot is different. He's different, the world is different. Life's game has been tweaked and the most Dean can hope for is one single turn of the die cast in his favor. The rest are determined to watch him fail.

Fail he has, and what a spectacular failure it is. So much had ridden on those wear, drooping shoulders for so long. There's only so much a person can handle without being the crutch of the fate of the world as well as big brother to the biggest trouble magnet in all of heaven, earth, and hell. Everyone's got their limit; Dean's found his and the extreme consequences that come with it.

He snorts bitterly.

So much for saving the world.

A low buzz tickles at the edge of his hearing, plaintive and uncertain, in worried tones that he can instantly pick out from a crowd of screaming civilians. It's a fact that used to make him glow with inner pride. Now it just leaves him with a sour taste.

_Dean? Where are you?_

He breathes out through his nose and stands stiffly. Wet sand drips muddy tracks down his thighs, cold.

_Come on._

He turns from the water, the image of the last sunset branded as a painful memory into his mind. There would be much chaos and spilled blood in the years to come. Life will be difficult, but he's pretty sure he can make it. Assuming he lasts that long. Dean just wants to rest.

_Dean, let's go._

It's his job to follow, to come when called, no questions asked or orders challenged. Dean is the epitome of obedience. Couple that with the fact that he's never been able to deny Sammy a thing, and, well… he's beginning to see his unhealthy eagerness to please as somewhat of a curse. Doomed to failure, was that the phrase?

But, _Dean, let's go._ An order, a request, a question, a plea. He can't ignore that; it goes against all his instincts, his very blood. _(you happy now, dad?)_ Wherever Sam goes, Dean will follow, not matter the path. And the path is a dark one. The road is unending and no light beckons at the end of the tunnel. Doomed, but not necessarily limited to merely failure. Plain old and simple _doomed_ will do just fine.

_You ready, Dean?_

No. Never. But what choice does he have?

With a deft twist of keys, his girl roars to life, loyal as ever _(the only one left who deserves the title)_, and together they rumble on their lone way as the end-of-days swarms the dark skies behind them.

* * *

­_The angels were waiting for him when he got back to the motel. Dean should have been used to them barging in unannounced, they'd both done it enough times. Why bother with knocking or respecting privacy when you were a warrior of the Lord? Doors were for mortals, anyway._

_Castiel stood at the foot of the nearest bed, face set in its habitually solemn contemplation. Uriel languished by the coffee table, heavy features arranged in the vaguely disgusted sneer that Dean had long since decided was his default expression. Both hosts looked slightly worse for wear and there was tenseness about their shoulders and eyes Dean recognized; it was something he saw every morning in the mirror. He might have described them as _haggard_ if not for the otherworldly grace with which the angels carried their skins. He didn't need to wonder at the reason behind their less-than-orderly appearances – he suspected, and their mutual presence came as no surprise. Rather, it confirmed the sick sense of foreboding roiling inside him._

"So," _Dean began hoarsely, skipping the ritualistic greeting that had come to define their sporadic meetings. _"Come to give me a head start on my 'goodbyes'?"

_Neither angel made any attempt at eye contact, choosing, instead, to study the headboard and carpeting, respectively. Again, nothing new, but Dean was sick of these games._

"Look. If this is about Sam and his 'powers', then you already know –"

"Dean," _Castiel interrupted softly. Dean caught a flicker of anguished gray as the angel glanced sideways at him. He knew then, that it was over. Resistance would be pointless this far in the game._

"We gave you your chance,"_ The stone dropped._

"But you failed to uphold your end of the bargain," _It clunked hollowly in the empty hole between his ribs. Even a heaven-sent guardian had admitted it – he was a _failure_._

"Now we must follow through with ours."_ The ominous statement was swallowed by the tension thick in the stale motel air. Silence screamed loud. His ears rang with it. Ice rolled down his neck, past his shoulders, and left his fingers shaking. His face tingled and his mind was struck numb._

_He should argue. Fight harder. Somehow block their path. This – this was unacceptable. Failure was not an option he could settle for. This was still fixable. He could still make it right._

(how many more people would be let down before He was satisfied?)

"Sam's powers have become great," _Uriel spoke at last. _"But great or not, they're on the wrong side of the war. His heart may be set, but human will can be swayed. That is a risk we can't afford to take."

_Dean's knees trembled and something in him shattered. Millions of fragile shards of glass fell to join the broken pieces left over, unswept, from Sam's death. But he couldn't move and he couldn't say anything. No hot defense sprang forth. He felt cold and devoid of everything. Frozen._

"I warned you of this, Dean," _Castiel said, almost as was of some sort of apology. As far as apologies went, Dean found this one lacking. It fell short, if only because his head was so set against what was happening. But he still couldn't seem to make himself move._

_Castiel lifted his ancient gaze to Dean's shell-shocked one. They shone with sincere sorrow, but Dean closed his eyes against them and their inhuman calmness. No amount of sympathy, whether granted from a higher power or not, would change a thing. It couldn't count for anything, besides; compassion was a human emotion, and the angels had proven themselves, several times over, aliens to most things regarding His supposed children._

"I'm truly sorry,"

_Dean kept his eyes closed, a shield to false pretenses. He heard a musical flutter and something soft brushed past his cheek, asking for forgiveness. He turned away from the touch and remained stiff, hands clenched at his sides. Another, stronger wave, resigned, and a brush of wind, then silence. _

_Apologies didn't matter. It was over. Everything was over. He couldn't fight anymore. Not even for Sam, the brother he'd died and gone to hell for. _

_Dean Winchester would have rushed after them, screaming and raging at them to stay the hell away from his brother. He would have told them that as long as he was around, Sam would remain untainted, and their fears were all unfounded. He would have argued until they'd given in. Or, he would have warned Sam, at least. He would have gone to any lengths to stop his world from crumbling around him for the fourth time in his short life._

_Dean Winchester wouldn't have given up._

_He wasn't that guy anymore. _

_He sat in that empty motel room and waited._

_

* * *

_

_Orginally, this was just going to be a one-shot, but it just kept going and going and going... so i'm gonna try my hand at a multi-chap.  
__bwt: At the moment, i'm only up to ch 5 with my prewriting. So... this is gonna take a while ('specially with the way i update... and that's assuming the story gets enough reviews to satisfy my ego - hint hint)_


	2. Chapter 2

_hee... Couldn't help myself. Posting stuff just gets me so hyper._

* * *

It takes some convincing, but Sam finally agrees that any huge drastic changes – as in hell-on-earth kind of huge – right away would be _bad._ Sam's still set on opening the glorious gates to hell, but Dean has his word that the transformation will be gradual. That buys him some time, at least. He hasn't given up _all_ hope just yet.

Ruby is still hanging around. Checking up on her little prodigy, all pride and disgusting, watery smiles. _My little boy's all grown up_, type thing. Dean shudders. She's worse than ol' Yellow Eyes.

He's still got her dagger, the demon-killing one. Every time she drops by for a friendly heart-to-heart with the Boy King, it takes all of Dean's self control not to unsheathe it and draw its jagged edges across her pretty little neck. Too bad the new host isn't the same hard-edged, tough blonde bitch as the original girl. Dean has always had a thing for soft brunettes.

But Sam has made it clear since day one, with a flash of opaque eyes and a rough shove that the two of them _would_ get along. And if he _ever _found either one of them secretly plotting against the other – mind-reading certainly did have it benefits – they didn't even want to _know_ what he would do. Ruby had smirked at him from behind Sam, smug and utterly infuriating, so certain that he would be the one to take the brunt of the psychic's anger. What he wouldn't give to rip her arrogant little face off…

The threat doesn't bother Dean much, though the unnecessary show of demonic prowess _does _unnerve him; but what really scares him is the doubt that had crowded his mind afterward. This isn't the same Sam that had once looked to him for guidance on every little thing. Dean's not sure where he ranks on Sam's priorities any longer. There used to be a time when there was no question. He knew all the answers to anything involving Sam. Now, Dean can't even tell you how his little brother takes his coffee. Or if he still drinks the stuff.

Hell, Dean isn't even sure where the border is between his Mr. Sensitive-Doe-Eyes Sammy and this new steely-eyed king who has full command over an army of demon hordes. The differences have blended, shoving his brother into a new cacophony of lights and darks, and he doesn't know where his real brother is hiding or how to get him back.

"Dean?"

Dean looks up from the gun he is in the motions of pulling apart. His extensive collection is spread across the bed before him in neat sections. He still cleans weapons when he's nervous; nothing, not even the end of the world, would ever shake that habit out of him. The motel is another crappy room somewhere in the seedy part of town, and Sam and Dean are still on the road, boy kings, demonic power struggles, and dark-eyed bodyguards be damned. Some things never change, no matter what, and for that at least, he has something to be grateful for. But in this case, even Dean can see he's trying to mask the truth of their new, even more screwed-up lives.

Sam is watching him fearfully, which, Dean thinks, is cruel irony. What does the Boy King have to fear now, when every other monster out there cowers from his very shadow? Dean can't remember ever being able to invoke that kind of emotion in his brother, not in _that _way. Sam had always been his own person, willing to do whatever it took to shape his own destiny, especially if that meant he had to rise away from a life that had only ever held him back. Sam had been independent. Fearless. If anything, Dean was the one who'd made a practice of watching his family through anxious, hooded eyes, waiting for the last bomb to come screaming down. This wouldn't be the first time Dean has suspected Sam's new kinghood has changed him more than just a difference in status. It'd practically been a given from the very start of this mess.

"Dean?" Sam repeats. He looks more anxious than before, if that's possible. Sam always was the one with the permanent worried frown etched into his forehead, cemented into place by genuine emotion. But that was before. Dean has the uncomfortable notion that Sam only seems uneasy in his presence. It seems like only yesterday that they were actual _brothers._ He knows the exact moment what all that had changed.

"Yeah," Dean coughs to cover up his lapse in attention. "What's up?"

Sam still has dried blood over the front of his button-up shirt from earlier that day, which he either doesn't notice or doesn't care enough about to clean up. Dean hadn't been there when _that_ incident had taken place, but when Ruby walked in with a disgruntled look on her stolen face, he'd known it hadn't been pretty. Thus the obscenely large splatter of blood caking Sam's shirt. He was glad for his absence in that case. Either way, Dean can't even begin to try to comprehend the goings on in his little brother's head; it'd been hard enough when the kid was still his old geek self.

However, it seems to Dean that in a sick way, Sam wears blood with a familiar ease, like it is a fashion accessory he'd always worn or even enjoyed flaunting to the public. Dean keeps trying to tell himself that it's the blood that bothers him and not the contentment with which his brother seems to finger the ruined piece of clothing. If Sam's new personality is to be believed, Dean wouldn't be surprised to find that exact shirt tucked safely away in the depths of his duffel, like a treasured souvenir, instead of dumped in a trashcan like a normal person would have done. Dean won't be the first to admit that Winchesters have never been normal, but this is just on a whole new level of weird. His world is so screwed up, he doesn't even know whether to laugh incredulously or swallow a bullet.

"Well," Sam says in the voice that always reminds Dean of a crying puppy. "I was just wondering… if you were mad at me,"

_(what?)_

Pre-hell Dean would have burst out in a fit of barking laughter at the look on his little brother's face. Overly-sensitive little geek…

Pre-hell Dean no longer exists.

"Why would I be mad, Sammy?" Dean says in the neutral voice that has almost completely overshadowed the sarcastic tones of earlier days. Though, in his head, he's racing through the events of the entire day, trying to figure out if he'd let something slip. Wondering if this is the day he'll finally lose his brother to this _thing_ for good, and maybe, a traitorous thought, maybe he is finally free of the obligations of this life. He is only here because his job isn't quite done with. Orders disguised as a final death wish are the only anchors to this world he has left, more permanent than any chains hell can come up with.

"Yeah, _Sammy_. Why would big brother _Dean_ be mad at you?" Ruby pips from the darkest corner of the room._ (why's she even here?)_ Probably here to make sure her Boy King doesn't regress. Being alone with his decidedly _human_ older brother is dangerous to her cause after all _(the bitchy prick)_.

This time, she isn't quite as careful as she normally is, and Dean catches the flicker of motion that signals her silent entrance. Demons have just a big of a grudge against doors as angels, it seems.

"Well," Sam sighs, his shoulders rolling into his normal, laid back pose. He's relaxed now, Dean notices with a weird pang he can't identify. The moment he has an audience, Sam instantly loses the awkwardness of his rigid stance, and a strange confidence overtakes the nervous edge fixed into his face. Dean is forced to watch as the man before him grabs his brother by the scruff of his neck and tucks him away into the folds of his new, cursed identity.

He could really get used to hating this.

"You haven't been talking much, is all," Sam shrugs, flashing a smirk that Dean has seen hundreds of times everywhere else. Everywhere else but Sam's face. Sam doesn't smirk, Sammy smiles. Sammy is sincere and kind and empathic. This imposter walking around with Sammy's face and Sammy's mannerisms is anything but. It might be just a smidge mean, but Dean almost wishes he could see the uneasiness clouding his brother's face again, just to see something that belongs to _Sam. His brother Sam._

"Oh," he replies, because Sammy would have expected him to come back with something. "I just figured, you know, with your demon posse stalking you wherever you go, you had enough to worry about without your 'human' brother holding you back."

Dean keeps his eyes on the metal and cloth shaking in his white hands _(they haven't been able to hold perfectly still for a while now – never safe)._ Out of the corner of his eye, Ruby shifts. He doesn't know if it's in warning or if the maggots in her host's rotting body are just acting up, but he's tired of trying to find meaning in every little thing – doesn't really get him very far anyway.

Sam's been quiet for a few seconds now, and Dean finally thinks that maybe the 'human' comment might have struck a chord or something. Then he catches himself – that would be old Sammy. He's got to stop thinking of him like this guy is still his Sam. This man isn't his brother. Not anymore _(time to get used to the idea, deano)._

But what comes next is something he'd never expected from this Sam.

"I always worry about you, Dean," his voice is soft, and Dean can actually _hear_ the truth singing through. That's _Sam_ saying this. This time it's _Sam._ It transports him back through years of pain and loss and, literally, hell on earth. Now it's just Sam and Dean. Brothers. Family. Warmth. He chides himself for being such a sap, but in this moment, looking up at his bright beacon of a brother _(surprised as hell)_, he revels in the light, and the darkness inside him is swept away. Right now, the boy before him is just Sammy, and he's just Dean. And they're just brothers. So he answers accordingly.

"You would, you pansy. Gotta turn everything into a lifetime special, don't you? Dude, whatever happened to the 'no chick-flicks' rule?"

Dean doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Sam replies with a genuine smile that is purely _Sam._ _(score one for team human)_

"Shot to hell the second I turned thirteen, jerk,"

It's more than Dean had ever anticipated, all these weeks of watching his brother turn into a stranger. And _god_, he's missed this. So he laughs. He laughs long and hard, and by the time he's done, they're both reduced to short pants of amusement. It's the best he's felt in weeks – months even – but he knows it won't last.

Ruby's gone from her hovering position in the corner, and Dean's surprised by her generosity, but he doesn't question it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth sort of thing. She probably knows she won't be talking to _her_ Sammy boy anytime soon, anyway.

He wipes hysterical tears from his eyes; even though it hadn't really been all that funny _(sam – the real sam – would have come up with something better)._ But his brother is full-on grinning. Nothing fake or unfamiliar about it, something he hasn't witnessed since he showed up at his door after four months in hell. It's the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen.

"Yeah, well you're just a little bitch,"

He would get used to missing this.

- - -

_Dean didn't know how long he sat on that lumpy excuse for a mattress, but when he looked up from his examination of the carpeting _(now he knew why Uriel had found it so fascinating)_, light was no longer streaming through the ragged curtain drawn over the window. If that was supposed to mean something, he wasn't the one to go to for explanations. _

_He turned from the sickly yellow of the drapes and curled on his side, facing the door, feeling _(hoping)_ as if someone with furious hazel eyes would come barging in through at any second. They had the same eyes; he was pretty sure, just a shade or two off. Mom's eyes._

_Somewhere along the way, Dean managed to doze off. The scattered dreams his muddled mind somehow came up with were riddled with scenes of death, screaming, and blood. A flurry of pearl white feathers and a pulsing roar and Dean jerked awake. His frantic gasps seemed to echo too loudly in the suffocating silence of the room. They hurt his ears. _

_He took a moment to calm his raging heart and smooth out his breathing. Then he realized his phone was going off. It vibrated agitatedly on the nightstand between his bed and the empty one, screaming out some rock tune he couldn't remember. _(should remember, picked it out)

_It took years to crawl over the vast desert rumpled sheets. The distance between him and his cell seemed to stretch further with each beat of the song. He finally scraped it off the beaten wood, the smooth plastic scratchy against his bare skin. He slid the phone open and pulled it to his ear, croaking._

"'lo?"

"Dean,"

_He froze._

_No. _

"Dean, please,"

_This was worse. This was worse –_

_The raw fear in the impossibly familiar voice sent claws tickling up his spine. The hair on his neck stood on end, itchy pinpricks._

"Dean,"

_He hardly dared to believe it. How could it –? It wasn't possible, but he couldn't help himself. _

"Samm-y?"_ his voice cracked embarrassingly, but now wasn't the time for macho self-consciousness. _"Sammy… what the hell?" _Blunt._

"W-what?"

"I thought – I thought… Where are you?" _The older brother finally emerged, and he let instinct take over._

"I… I… Dean, I don't kn-know. Dean, please,"

_He swallowed sickly and forced his hand to hold still. It wouldn't stop shaking. He let his voice disguise the wave of queasiness, retreating into the shell of the soldier._

"Come on, man. Tell me what you see,"

"I… there's a motel…"

"Hold on, Sam, I'm coming,"

"O-okay,"

_The phone slid shut and he was in motion before his brain had the chance to catch up. When he caught himself, he was already at the door of the Impala, duffel in hand, phone burning a hole in his pocket. He collapsed into the driver's seat and sat for a crazed second. The urgency from the moment before was pushed under temporarily. _

_His mind couldn't stop spinning, repeating over and over: whathappenedwhathappenedwhathappenedwhathappened_

(how was he still alive?)

_Dean breathed in deeply. A mental breakdown was undoubtedly in order, but not yet._

_He quickly righted himself, jammed in the keys, and twisted edgily, barely waiting for the soft growl of the engine before slamming on the gas. He would apologize for the manhandling later._

(coming, sammy. coming.)

_He could hardly drive; his hands were shaking too hard._

* * *

_Ok... I can't write angst worth jack. Reassure me?_


	3. Chapter 3

_Shorter than the first two chapters... but you don't mind, right? =D_

* * *

Sometimes Dean misses being able to see the sun and the sky. Some stars would be nice once in a while, too. And, not that he has any experience with stuff involving anything resembling a plant, but the trees aren't looking too healthy either. If you ask him, hell-on-earth doesn't exactly suit Earth.

Dark billows constantly swarm the skies – fresh-outta-hell demons looking for a human body to invade – and block out any light they might be able to get from the sun otherwise. The air has turned crisp and hot; any humidity has long been roasted away by the sudden change in climate. It's a little warmer than Dean is used to, but at least it isn't a constant blizzard. It kind of makes him wonder if hell is affected by the changes up top as well. Doubt it.

Nearly everyone Dean's met is black-eyed and has a permanent smirk latched onto their face. It somehow manages to look arrogant and reverent at the same time, and Dean wishes he'd mastered _that_ technique earlier, when he'd had the chance to use it on unsuspecting sheriffs. They all know him by name, call him 'sir', and quite frankly, it freaks him out. They walk around looking all submissive and demure _(probably laughing inwardly)_, never quite meeting his eyes_ (fakers)_, respectful and fearful _(not)_, as if he's the one with the psychic powers capable of sending 'em straight back down into the pit. Dean supposes it's just his new status – him being the _brother_ of the Boy King and all _(untouchable)_. Does that make him some sort of prince? One of those prissy girlies wearing tights and capes? Nah, he'll pass.

His relations to their king and ruler would make him royalty, at least. It would explain all the non-hissing and overall niceness, no matter how phony he suspects it to be, directed towards his person. This is coming from demons, mind you; it's disconcerting to say the least. He'd really rather go back to being just Dean Winchester, hunter-extraordinaire and awesome big brother. But since no monster would be stupid enough to dare act up now, his hunting career is in the slumps, leaving him with the brother thing. And _that_ is where Dean hits a roadblock.

Sam and Dean haven't been brothers since Dean had died for good _(should have been for good, at least)_. Sam finally learned to live on his own _(by 'on his own' really means 'screwing with a demon bitch')_, and then Dean came back like those four missing months had never happened. But the world and its order had changed, leaving Dean behind with only memories of what was and no way to fit himself back into his brother's life.

Then… _this._

As if his entire life hasn't been hell enough, let's add _real hell_ into the mix and see what we come up with.

It scares him, it does, worse than his impending doom tick tocking away from between his tired fingers – his destiny as a martyr looming over his head, weighing him down. _(even if getting pulled out by an angel kind of cancels all that out)_ If you'd told him a year ago that Sam was fated to go darkside no matter what he did, past-Dean would probably have shot you point blank, thinking you were some kind of freaky psychic demon. This is something that can't be predicted, screw all-powerful demons and their arrogance and prophecies. Sometimes Dean wishes that he'll just wake up one day with his world restored and the fragments of his brotherhood somehow pieced back together. Maybe this is all just one messed-up dream. But he can't just disregard the present, however strongly his mind yet rejects it. In his line of work, ignorance can lead to things worth than death.

Just the other day, Dean watched his brother rip a man limb from limb for stepping out of line. It'd been a harmless comment; he can't even remember what it'd been about.

_(liar: 'hey boy king, you bringing your pet along with you, too?')_

Dean had learned long ago not to let others' words rattle him. He realizes now that Sam hadn't perfected the art as well as his brother or father, making the mistake of taking everything to heart. Sometimes, though, some of these people _(things)_ have just got it coming _(but no one deserves to be torn into pieces like that)_.

In a flash, blood exploded onto the walls like a gory imitation of modern abstract art and the demon oozed feebly from the shredded remains of its host. With a contemptuous flick and an enraged sneer, the sluggish black smoke instantly combusted and Dean could have sworn he heard screaming. Even after silence had fallen upon the small group of shocked witnesses, human _(the one)_ and demon alike, he stood stock still, almost afraid to move lest the king should turn on him as well. He didn't even stop to realize that he'd thought of his brother as _the king._

Sam twisted to stare beseechingly at him, eyes shining, asking for forgiveness. But he couldn't return it with the answering reassurance, whether his instinct demanded of it or not. All Dean saw – all his was capable of seeing – was the blood and gore and chunky entrails glistening and dripping off his little brother like sick, swampy water. He knew he'd been splattered with demon guts as well, he felt dirty and marked, but he hadn't been the one who split a man open like a ripe melon with nothing more than the slightest twitch of a finger. It had been like watching Sam kill Jake all over again, plus a whole lot of extra carnage and rage and a pinch of demonic psychic interference. The murderous glint in his obsidian-yellow gaze is something Dean has and always will have nightmares over.

There are days when he dreads the morning for fear of whose eyes he'll be looking into when he says good morning to his brother.

- - -

_It was a miracle Dean didn't get pulled over on his way to coming his brother's rescue. He didn't know how many traffic laws he broke along the way, but it took him three-and-a-half hours to cross at least 400 miles worth of highway. A new record for him. _

_There was a bright flash of orange neon declaring a vacancy at _Motel Eclipse_ and he screeched into the limited space of the parking lot with a sharp twist of the steering wheel. He hurriedly shoved the gear into 'park' and yanked the keys out with more force than was strictly necessary. He scrambled out of the car without bothering to shut the door or gather together any weapons and sprinted for the motel. Room numbers blasted past him, the colors blending together until he could barely discern them._

353. 353. 353. 353. Where the hell is the damn room! 353. 353. 353.

_He shot past the orange, puke-colored door the first time around and instantly doubled back. He paused for a moment to brace himself then threw his entire body weight into the fragile wood, nearly kicking a hole through it in his effort to get through. As far as Dean was concerned, the door was nothing more than a frail wooden wall blocking him from his little brother. If he'd calmed down enough to think straight, he would have realized that the door hadn't been locked in the first place. The wood gave way with a loud splintering crack and the door burst forward. _

"Sammy!"

_It rocked back, rebounding against the opposite wall with the force of his shove, but Dean had eyes only for the scene beyond the threshold. _

_His throat seized and ice crawled up and down his stiff spine._

Blood. _So much _blood.

_It caked the walls in rusting waterfalls, as if something in the center of the room had exploded, forcing the red liquid splashing outward. The lime green carpeting morphed into a crimson pond, and mysterious lumps lay scattered across the glossy lake. He could barely make out the shape of the furniture, all filthy with the stench of death and fear. The room had been repainted a new shade of human viscera. Even in the dim lighting, the single square beam from the doorway exposed enough of the butchery to get the full horrific image._

_Dean choked back the bout of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. The drowning sensation was back full force. Homesickness and the horrible need for _Dad_ grabbed him by the lapels of his leather jacket and rattled him until the world wobbled and his gut clenched. It was like a sucker punch straight to the gut, and it was all he could do to stay standing instead of folding in half with a horrified wheeze. His breath was reduced to a rasping gasp._

"God," _was all he could muster._ "God,"

_His heart plummeted, crashed through the earth into its burning core, where it caught raging fire. Stomach in ropes, Dean grit his teeth and clenched his fists until he felt his skin break as dawning realization lit up harshly in his mind. The phone call had been a hoax. A cruel, cruel, hoax. Something he'd have expected from a demon, not from an angel. But warriors could be cruel when the greater good was involved _(is that what you call this!?)

"God…"

_His mind refused to wrap around it. _It wasn't true. None of this was real.

"Sammy_…_"

* * *

_Review please? I promise the next chapter will be longer... maybe... probably... well I've already written it so, the length is already set and done. And it is longer, just in case you're wondering. If not, then... well just know that I'm a huge dork about these things. XD_


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter four! I'm particularily proud of this chapter for some reason... Just thought you'd like to know... =D_

* * *

Dean doesn't know how he gets himself into these messes.

A quick jab and a flash of skeletal light, and another demon joins the masses. He wrenches the knife back and spins, catching the one who'd thought she could sneak up on him while he was busy slaughtering her brethren. His elbow clips her chin, knocking her away headfirst. He follows through with a vicious thrust to her torso. An impatient twist and he's on to the next one.

He could be sleeping right now, in that warm bed, under moth-eaten covers. He wouldn't even be here if Sam hadn't called him. _(damn sammy and his freaking three a.m. wake up calls)_

One manages to get past the protective charms Sam had magicked onto him, and he's jerked backwards by invisible hooks curled painfully around his shoulders. Dean flies through the air right into the charging crowd of possessed townsfolk. He curses. With a roar, he scrambles to his feet just as a young teenage girl rushes forward, the demon in her trailing out her nose and blood curling around her cheekbone from a jagged wound across her right temple. The knife hooks into the fleshy skin just under her jaw and rips out through her heart-shaped face. Her warm blood spills over his sleeve in gushes of thick red. The demon screams, burning, and the body crumbles away, only to be replaced by a scrawny business-type guy with huge glasses that overshadow his thin face. Dean kills him too, with a furious downward jab right through his collarbone; they're all too stupid to attempt to dodge his blade. But they keep coming and coming and coming – a never-ending lineup. She's raised an army.

He can't even remember where Sam had taken him. He'd done some sort of weird teleportation thing where they kind of just… fade into view with a whirl of smoky dust. Dean's not sure whether it's a Sam technique or if that's how the demons manage to get around so fast. It would explain the aversion to doors though; Dean wouldn't bother with them either if he could just fade into existence wherever he wanted. It's pretty awesome, too, evil demonic power or no.

A ten-year-old kid _(ben – whatever happened to 'im?)_ with round cheeks framed by dark brown hair and decorated with a set of blazing emerald eyes snarls at Dean before flashing twin pits of hellish black. Nothing happens, and the demon shouts something unintelligible, in some archaic language Dean doesn't recognize, rage dripping off its stolen tongue. Dean bares his teeth wolfishly and slams the knife blade-first into its gaping mouth. _(just a kid, for gods sake, just a kid)_

He'd said before that he'd be willing to do anything for his family, but this is getting kind of ridiculous. Getting woken up three in the morning, no warning or notice, expected to roll over and accept the muttered, "Dean, wake up. We gotta go," And before you know it, you're poofed into the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes you slept in and the demon-killing knife that now substitutes for your Bowie. Yeah, Dean's has better days.

A burst of white light explodes in his vision and warmth spreads from a focal point at the base of his skull. Suddenly wobbly, he whirls to face his attacker. He's met by an enormous, beefy fist the size of Canada that oh-so-kindly introduces itself to Dean's extremely inviting nose. Dean can't see past the blur of colors that flash before his dizzy eyes, and hard, scratchy gravel impacts hard against his back. His head is whirling and something wet is dripping down his face. When his vision clears, he's surrounded by dark blobs and low, triumphant laughing. His entire his body is a throbbing mess of fiery nerves and he's lying at the feet of a hostile army of demons, completely vulnerable. He really regrets waking up this morning. _(back up… yeah… that would be nice right about now… sammy?)_

He _really_ doesn't know how he gets himself into these messes, especially when he's pretty sure there are tons of other _better_ things he could be doing with his time…

Not really; that is an outright lie. His little brother always takes precedence. Sometimes, though, Sam has really sucky timing.

"Well, well, well," begins the predictably unoriginal evil monologue. He resists the exasperated eye-roll. "Hey look fellas, it's the Boy King's royal pet. Not so intimidating without your freaky master, are you?" This is followed by a taunting poke in the ribs with nonsensically overly-dressy shoes.

Dean just groans, mostly because he can't seem to make his bloody mouth form words, but partly because this is probably the lamest intro to an evil monologue he's ever had the misfortune of being forced to listen to. _(seriously. dude. cliché, much?)_

The pudgy kid standing over his head giggles and snorts, and somehow manages not to spill drool all over Dean's hair. But then he gives Dean's head a nice whopping kick, adding to his impending headache, and Dean has to rethink whether or not he'll spare the fatty when he gets out of this. _(sammy… cue heroic entrance… anytime now…)_

"Whatcha gonna do now, Mr. Awesome Demon Hunter? Huh? Huh? What now?"

Dean raises his eyebrow in a 'Really? That's the best lame ass insult you can come up with?' expression. It goes unnoticed due to the jeering and taunting still directed at his person person via the_ (literally)_ stupid-as-hell demons who _still_ haven't finished him off. Some just never learn. Dean holds back the inappropriate comment that just might push them over the edge, leading to his messy demise. He's learned a few things since his time in hell. Just in time too.

_(three… two… one…)_

The demons freeze instantly, rendered immobile by an unseen but impossibly powerful energy. A booming pulse explodes through the army, and they all stumble away from Dean's prone form with the force of the shockwave. The shocked looks on every one of their faces almost makes him want to bust out laughing. Or point and yell, "How do you like that?" But that's too lame for Dean Winchester, so he refrains.

Then the screaming starts. Dean has enough experience by this point to know to cover his ears. Jets of roaring, steaming black smoke burst upward, shooting past the raw throats of their former hosts to gather in a boiling storm above them. He clenches his eyes shut, just missing the sight of the herded demons bursting into bright orange flame. The backs of his eyelids light up, veined red; the heat burns his skin. And just like that, it's over. Not a moment too soon.

Dean waits for the suddenly possession-free crowd of people to collapse before trying to get up, breath struggling to whistle past dry split lips and a crushed nose.

"You could have waited, you know," a chilling voice murmurs too close to his ear. He doesn't jump, to his own credit. The expected shiver at the sound doesn't run through his body either, and Dean wonders if he's finally adjusted to the startling change. A bony hand clamps down on his elbow and none too gently hauls him to his feet. He can feel the cold touch through the layers of his wrinkled clothing. He sways slightly, head still spinning dizzily, but the firm hand gripping tightly around his bicep _(squeezing just a liiiitle too hard)_ holds him upright. He's not exactly thankful for the sentiment just now, though.

"Took too long… to ge' your scrawny 'ittle ass here. Figured… it was about time to get th' show on th' road,"

"Hmmm. It has nothing to do with the fact that you let a four-year-old _girl_ get the jump on you,"

The words and the humor don't sound quite right riding on the voice of this man that isn't real, but at least they're there. Dean isn't _that_ picky.

"N'pe. An' she was p'ssessed, genius,"

He leans a bit heavier against the rock hard stone standing beside him, unable to keep his head from drooping below his shoulder line. Wonders where this is going – stuff like this actually _go_ places now, if you catch his drift. Last time it's been about his dangerously reckless habit of jumping into a fight unprepared.

_("are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" "who me? nah. suicides for emo girls. relax sammy. not goin' anywhere" "make sure it stays that way")_

Who knows what kinds of lessons Sam plans to incorporate into his new scripted life? Oh joy.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Dean. You're bleeding all over my favorite shirt," the tone resonates familiarly in Dean's head, though the voice still grates the wrong way.

"Yeah. Sure. Good idea,"

Before he even finishes, an icy cold bucket of water dumps over his head, shocking and unpleasant. He gasps, breath nearly knocked out of him. Dean squirms, literally feeling his nose knit back into its original shape and his teeth growing back in where they'd been kicked out. The throb in his head is overwhelmed by a freezing nausea. It slides over him, slimy and dirty. Then _(finally),_ it's all whisked away, taking his breath along with it.

"Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Sam murmers. His freezing, smoky breath brushes over the back of Dean's neck, raising the tiny hairs as it passes by. He shrugs, hiding the shiver that courses through his body. Sam chuckles lowly and lets him go to stand on his own.

As Dean bends over, still gasping, Sam, moves away to examine the scene.

"Lilith," he says, cold and cruel. It reminds him of Yellow Eyes. That sends another shudder prickling across his shoulders and arms to rest in his fingertips.

"Bitch 'erself… was here 'rlier… missed 'verythin'," Dean wheezes. Sam's eyes flash a muddy gold at that. Sooty black swirls in the center, reminding Dean of food coloring in a glass of water clear water. "But she ran the second I got here. Looked scared,"

Sam scoffs derisively. "Coward," he mutters under his breath.

He rotates slowly on the spot, breathing deeply, glancing longingly at the bloody mess left behind by his brother and the crude knife. His eyes hold a disappointed air, let down by the fact that he was too late to join in the violence. It strikes Dean harder than any physical blow, scraping hard nails of denial along the length of his spine. _(its sammy. just sammy)_

But when 'Sam' looks back at him, his eyes are still a murky mustard color, and his smile is feral. "Come on, big brother. Jan's serving lasagna tonight," _(yeah, 'cept demons dont need to eat, sam)_

He swallows to clear his suddenly thick throat and somehow manages to scrape together something resembling a smile. It feels more like a lying grimace, but Sam buys it. _(_he _wouldnt have)_

"Can't wait little bro. I'm starving," he barely chokes through the endearment. It doesn't quite fit anymore.

"You're _always _starving,"

"Yeah, well you're just not sensitive enough to my needs. Takes a lot of fuel to stay this good-looking. Not something I'd expect you to understand, Sasquatch," Now he's just rambling to hide the ache.

"Jerk,"

"… B-Bitch,"

As he passes by the still body of the pudgy fatso _(not dead, is he?)_, Dean aims a heavy kick at the drooping cheek. The head rocks to the left violently _(oops. was that a snap?)_ with the force of the cheap blow, double-chin jiggling. It brings Dean a low sense of satisfaction and all is right with the world again.

- - -

_His hands still shook, even gripping the smeared doorway with angry white knuckles. He could barely get breath to move past his contracting throat. Any air that did get through was heavy with the metallic reek of blood that made nausea clench at his gut. He couldn't move any further into the room. Yet he couldn't just _stand_ there, not knowing for sure. He needed something to go on; closure _(turning into a frickin' psychiatrist here, sammy. blame you)_ Dean stepped in._

_His foot squished down on the red, red carpet, sinking into it with a horrible squelch. He resisted the urge to jump away, and reached his foot for another step. His stomach churned uncomfortably. Something burned at the back of his throat._

"S-s-sammy?"_ squeaked a frightened voice he hadn't heard in nearly twenty-five years._ "S-sam,"

_His foot slipped forward a few more inches. He was fully inside now. He took a long shaky breath, wide eyes fixed on the bright red all around him._

"Sam,"

_He inched closer. His breathing was loud and shrill. It puffed out before him, gray mist._

_Then he froze. _

_Dean stood frigidly alert, listing intently to the heavy silence of the room. He was _sure _he'd heard a noise. Someone was there._

"Sam?" _he called tentatively. Hope climbed up cautiously, bracing itself for the inevitable crushing realization of truth. _"Sammy?"

"…dee…"_ There!_

_The room and all its horrors whirled away, leaving only Sam and frantic anticipation. _

_Dean splashed around the first bed and rounded the cushy corner. His heart pumped wildly. His brain reeled with 'what ifs' and 'maybes'. _(pleasepleaseplease_please_) _His breathing came hard, the metalic taste lingering the air nearly making him gag._ _Everything stopped at the sight of the drooping mop of bloody hair hanging over broad hunching shoulders, the lanky body folded between the twin beds, shivering._ (thank you)

"Sam,"_ the voice rose from the grave of a child who had died in flames and fear and the weight of a tiny bundle in his arms. _"Sammy!"

_His world was filled with only Sam and blood, his mind not able to make the vital connection. _"Sam, answer me!"

_His brother remained unresponsive. All Dean could think of was his father's accusing eyes. _(i told you look after him, dean. cant trust you to do even that, can i?) _He had to work to make his voice work again._

"Come on, Sam. Please. Don't do this to me,"

_Finally, god _finally_, his brother lifted his hanging head and Dean searched for his eyes behind the long bangs. His heart stuttered. Then it thudded back thunderously at a roaring pace, pumping ice into his veins._

_Cold, glazed yellow eyes looked back at him, uncomprehending and an unseeing wide. Glassy confusion transformed Sam's face into something unreasonably sinister. It grabbed at Dean's heart and _squeezed_. _

(daddemoncabinyelloweyes: 'they dont need you as much as you need them')

_His hands shook where they gripped at Sam's slumped shoulders. The tips of his fingers felt cold. He couldn't tell if Sam was really looking at him or not and it closed off his throat._

(sammegpossession: 'youre worthless')

"Sam…"

_In the peripheral of his vision, a pasty white feather drifted off the bed to land in a thick puddle, mottled with clumps of shiny red. _

_He gathered his docile little brother into his arms and let the first tear fall. _

* * *

_Before you ask (if you even thought of it in the first place), Dean is _not_ fighting demons in his boxers... Although... *winkwink* XD Hahaha!_


	5. Chapter 5

_More of hell on earth and pretty-boy angst..._

* * *

The black sky churns violently, crackling with lightening and booming roars of thunder – a party of demons at last set loose by their strict master. The sweet breeze blowing earlier has picked up speed, howling in anguish, becoming a screaming tornado. The sea boils, hissing and bubbling, and the waves hurtle themselves against the yielding shore. Whatever demon-free humans there are left in the world are probably squatting in their man-made storm ditches, praying and begging for the end to be swift. The world has been turned upside down in a raging inferno and it seems like the Apocalypse is finally about to tear the earth apart.

Dean knows better.

Sammy's in one of his moods.

He's extra sissy, pissed at just about everything and everyone; he eats compulsively, bitches to everyone about every little thing, and generally acts like a PMSing girl. _(always knew there was a reason for all that hair)_ The only difference is that Sam spews evil powers and offs anyone who crosses him the wrong way. The glinting yellow eyes and irritated snarl curling menacingly around the mouth are also dead giveaways.

It's on days like these when Dean finds himself speculating what it would feel like to have that tiny pellet of metal rip through the flesh at the back of his throat, cutting through upper cords of his fragile spine, and exploding out the back of his head in a spray of warm blood. Would he feel it, or would there just be a shot, the booming retort of the gun, then nothing? Or he could go with the 'out with a bang' approach. Go looking for that coven of vampires he still hasn't taken out. Provoke a particularly nasty spirit maybe. Wendigo? Zombie? Trickster. He could even summon a demon and ad-lib. With his job, he has the privilege of getting creative.

Who knew contemplating suicide would be so morbidly entertaining?

A gust of black wind nearly shoves him off the hood of the Impala. He quickly rights himself, pushing his hands back into the usually comforting warmth of his leather pockets. During these off days, they only serve to ruthlessly remind him of the nonexistent disappointment shining in Dad's dying eyes _(notrealnotrealnotrealnotDAD)_. It jams the lump back into his throat and he's back to thinking of the best ways to go out. Go out while still leaving an imprint on the world that isn't going to remember who he was or what he sacrificed for its safety and blessed innocence.

So many choices…

Dean tilts his head back; eyes closed, and he pretends there's actual sunshine beaming through wispy white clouds to soak up. If he does that, leaning his head _just right_, it almost feels half like the real thing. Other than that, the place is almost unrecognizable. The only familiar aspect about this spot now is the rough texture of the sand. The dusty field, ashy and black with soot rather than sparkling tan, is the only thing left here that's managed to escape the total corruption brought on by the demons and their crooked breath. The clouds _(more demons)_ are too thick for the sun to shine through, if the sun even still exists. The ideas of a _sun_ and_ light_ are all foreign to the world now.

It sucks just as much as it sounds.

Dean can barely remember what it was like before; the memories have faded with time and distance. It's like trying to remember exactly how his mother smiled down at him when she tucked him in at night, if her eyes twinkled or her head inclined fondly, mouth curling up tenderly at the perfect corners.

_("the angels are watching over you, dean. they'll keep you safe.")_

_(but they're gone now, momma. what do i do now? mommy? daddy? what am i supposed to do?)_

The dark sky screams and flashes an alarming yellow. It burns and writhes thousands of feet in the air where the airplanes no longer soar. _(the one thing hell got right) _Dean watches passively as the boiling clouds shriek again, exploding in a storm of angry fireworks. Mr. Boy King must be prissier than usual this time. Dean actually feels sorry for whatever unfortunate dumbass decides to annoy Sam today, demon or creature alike. Sam's ruthlessness knows no bounds, especially when his ever fragile temper is shoved clear off the edge.

As for himself, Dean prefers to steer clear of his little brother during his unnatural demonic 'time of the month'. He hasn't yet seen what a grouchy Sam with freaky psychic powers is like, and he'd like to keep it that way. Keeps the precious image mostly intact.

A stray wave hits the sand right in front of him, spraying brackish water into his eyes. And in case it's never happened to you, go spray some Lysol into your face – _it freaking hurts. _He scowls, cursing as the sting of salt burns under his lashes. He blinks and scrubs at them, which only serves to make the blazing sensation worsen. Ire rising steadily and eyes tearing up pathetically, Dean is having a hard time keeping up the stoic façade, and he wonders when he became so melodramatic and moody. Sam must be rubbing off on him.

A feral snarl of pure frustration escapes him as he pushes roughly off his girl's hood and stalks to the water's foaming edge. He doesn't know what exactly he's raging at – the scratching in his sockets, his own stupidity, or the fact that He's abandoned him _again –_ everything is beyond screwed and there's no one left to blame but himself. So, naturally, Dean charges the responsibility on the memories of everyone _(momdadsammygod)_ who left him and the people _(momdadsammygod) _who didn't come to his rescue. No one is safe from his condemnation.

The waves soak through his clothes in furious rushes of salt and wetness that leave him fuming. Dean raises his eyes to the ravaged heavens, eyes scorching. He sucks in the hot sulfuric air and his stance turns stone solid with livid defiance.

_(i hate this. i hate you)_

"Ya hear that?" he screams to the unfeeling clouds. "Yeah, that's right, I said it! _I. Hate. You!_" He clenches his clammy fingers into tight fists. They shake and his arms ache with the trembles. God could just smite him down right this second for all Dean cares. In fact, he glares fiercely at the disregarding heavens, he _dares_ Him.

"Where were you, huh?" he wants to know, yelling hoarsely. "What was so damn _friggin'_ important you decided you had to go and ignore my entire family when they needed you the most? Why did they deserve to die? Huh?"

He's _crying_ now. The tears burn sizzling tracks down his frozen cheeks. He's gritting his teeth so tightly together his jaw hurts. He tastes warm salt on his lips.

"What did I do to deserve this? Just tell me that!"

His demands are met with silence. Hateful, raging, resentful _silence_.

Dean screams wordlessly, long and guttural, until he feels as empty as when Dad had left him. It's a bitter, curdling, broken sound, full to the brim with a cold hollowness that burns at his insides. He screams until Sam's shrieking voice cuts in front of his own. Sam's voice _always_ prevails, he seethes resentfully.

_(its always about sam. samsamsam. what about me?)_

_Dean! Where are you!_

He spins in a tight circle, kicking up sand with a vicious jerk. The Impala glints strangely evilly under the unholy wrath of the storm overhead. He doesn't look back.

_Dean!_

The car looms closer until he can nearly touch it. _(too close) _He yells irately, ramming his booted toe into the rim of the Impala. Another kick. Followed by another. All the rage comes pouring out in an overwhelming wave of crashing frenzy. _Kick. Kick. Clang._

_Dean! Quit playing around!_

"Shut the hell up!" Dean screams at no one. He's alone on the beach. The crashing of the gray waves can't drown out the buzzing at the corner of his awareness. It goes on and on and on, haughty and infuriatingly irksome. "Get out of my frickin' head!"

_Then come on!_

Dean spins again and puts his fist through the windshield. It shatters impressively and slices into the skin of his bony knuckles. The cuts are deep and run through the back of his hand to bend of his wrist, blood bubbling up from the fleshy tissue to spill over his outstretched fingers. The red throbs in time with his beating heart. He doesn't feel a thing.

_Dean! Hurry it up already! _

He stands in the headlights of the broken Impala, watching red ribbons curl around the ridges along his knuckles. The insane urge to giggle surprises him. But at the same time, it doesn't.

_I need you!_

_(oh, so _now_ you admit it)_

He stands in front of his wounded girl, blood dripping from the splintered pieces of glass, wishing his head would just explode to save him the trouble of doing it himself.

_Where the hell are you!_

The sleek black of the Impala flashes; reflecting the glint of lightening behind him. It illuminates the red embellishing the fractured glass for the barest of seconds. He's going to have to fix that, the annoying realization comes a little too late.

_Dean!_

He's sick of this. Needy. Dependent. Clingy. Spoiled. Always calling him for every _damn _hitch in his little plan for frickin' world order. As if that's even possible with _demons _let loose running around, screwing everything all to hell and back. Like walking backwards blindfolded. He is so sick of this.

_Dean!_

_(when will it end?)_

- - -

_The roar of the engine was all Dean could hear for the next few hundred miles. He didn't once stop for a break or to sleep. He needed to get the image of the motel room out of his head and driving aimlessly with no destination seemed like the perfect way to do it._

(blood and white feathers)

_He was still waiting for Sam to say something. So far, all he'd done was flinch away from the stray pair of flashing headlights across the dashboard and lean into Dean when he'd helped him into the passenger seat. Then he'd clammed up, curling into a tight ball against the cool window. Sam had somehow managed to fit all 6'4" onto a tiny square of the bench seat, legs and all. He hadn't made a sound since Dean had found him amidst the carnage of the motel room, a place which Dean was trying to get as much distance between as possible. _

(shredded overcoat in blood and white feathers)

_The Impala rolled and dunked into a large ditch in the road – it was so dark, the headlights weren't much help. The car dipped violently, rocking them both in their seats with a loud curse from Dean and a tiny whimper from Sam. When they finally bottomed out, Dean coiled his fist around the steering wheel, face hard as he studied his brother anxiously. _(god, what happened, sammy?)

"Sam?"

_Sam whimpered again, louder. He curled tighter in his tiny ball, smearing more blood over the leather of the seats, which, right now, Dean could care less about. Sam made a high keening sound at the back of his throat that slowly escalated into a panicked screech. _

_Dean jerked the wheel and braked harshly before shoving his door open. He quickly rounded the front of the car as Sam's screaming grew increasingly louder. He could hear it through the glass. His own throat ached as he yanked open the passenger door and caught his brother as he spilled into his arms. _

_Sam fought him at first, clawing at his face with raw cries of terror. They tore at Dean's insides and he clenched his heart against them. His arms gripped his brother, awkward, yet firmly and pulled him close to his body. The minute Sam realized who it was, he instantly quieted. His hoarse shrieking reduced to small, heartbroken whimpers and he drooped heavily into the embrace._

_Dean would take his victories where he could._

"Sam, come on. What's wrong, huh? I'm here, I'm here. Nothing's wrong, right? You're all right now, okay? I'm here. I'm here, Sam,"

_To his increasing horror, Sam began to sob in earnest – great, hacking cries of misery. He seized at the lapels of Dean's jacket, desperate for the contact. Dean leaned into the touch, more than willing to comply. With Sam, there were no boundaries he wasn't willing to cross. His arms came around the broad shoulders properly in something that came as close to a cuddle as Winchesters were capable of._

"Shhh, Sam. You're all right. You're okay. I gotcha. It's gonna be fine, alright? I've gotcha,"

_The repeating litany of soothing words seemed to stream out from him nonstop. Some instinct involuntarily pushed him, spilling words from his otherwise frozen lips. Dean rocked their bodies back and forth, hoping the motion would calm his brother down. It'd always worked when they were younger._

"Shhh. It's Dean, remember? I gotcha, little brother. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? I promise, you hear me? You're fine,"

_He thought he felt Sam nod against the hollow of his throat, where his head was tucked. Dean felt his arms tighten subconsciously in response. _

"I gotcha… I'm gonna make this right, I swear, Sammy. If it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna make this right, promise," _He said it with enough conviction that he was pretty sure he persuaded Sam of his pledge. Now he needed only to convince himself of the same._

"'Cause I'm an awesome big brother, right Sam? Should be a piece of cake, am I right?"

_Sam shifted in his lap and nodded tentatively. He hiccupped and nodded again, stronger and surer of himself. He could trust his big brother. He could always trust Dean. _

"Good, 'cause big brothers are always right. And I'm never letting you forget it,"

_All the responsibility would crush him eventually. But for now, he had a job and a promise to keep. He had to take care of his little brother. _

"You're ok, Sam. I gotcha. I've always got you,"

_And a Winchester never went back on a promise._

_

* * *

_

_Last of the daily updates. I have to actually start writing again, man... This is actually going to go somewhere, I promise. It's not going to be just aimless angsting, I'll get there... eventually. PS: If there's a certain "scene" you'd like to see played out in this fic, just let me know and I'll see if I can fit it in somewhere. No suicides or character deaths, though. I got something special planned for that..._ =D  
_Oh, and before I forget, we all know from Ghostfacers that Sam and Dean are routine cussers. So in Dean's little "monologue" (for lack of a better word) up near the beginning, feel free to substitute a couple of the harmless words for some choice ones if it makes you feel better. =D (My parents still scare me, heh...)_


	6. Chapter 6

_And it's back! Writer's block sucks. Out. Loud. Doesn't it? Well I'm sorry it took so long... It's been what? Three months? Yikes. Well, I had the chapter finished and ready about last week, but the site wouldn't let me log in, and I was sooo frustrated! Anyone else have that problem?_

_Anyway... read on!_

* * *

Dean jerks awake to the sound of a violent storm pounding at his door. A crack of thunder deafens his eardrums and lightening briefly illuminates the rusty space the shade of burning ember. It takes a moment to recognize the churning roar as heavy rain. It beats out a wave of rhythm against the sagging roof above his head. Dean peels himself from the limp sheets and crouches over the edge of the rock hard mattress. He rubs a hand back and forth across his rumpled hair, his brain still foggy with sleep.

He scratches at the grogginess crowding his eyes and wonders why he is no longer peacefully asleep at such ungodly an hour. The storm rages unapologetically on beyond the bare door, and it's a loud one for sure, but Dean's slept through worse. He knows he has. He almost snored straight through an entire banshee cry without so much as a flicker of interrupted dreams once, and tonight should be no different.

A petulant buzz whines in his ear, and it's almost like a light bulb blinks to life in his head. _(oh. right.)_

_Dean… you awake yet?_

Dean sighs audibly, though he'd be the only to hear it anyway. Dread seeps into his limbs, adding more lead to their weary weight.

_I found her, Dean. This time I'm sure. _

_(thats what you said last time too, sammy. and the time before that, and the time before that…)_

_Five minutes, come on._ A hint of barely controlled excitement, like that of a child's, colors the words, as they ring through his head.

Dean raises slowly, muscles heavy with a fearful apprehension he can't explain, something he chalks up to pure and simple instinct. Some instincts are too stubborn to fade, and those are the ones Dean's learned to trust implicitly. But trying to tell his inflexible brother that it's a bad idea to eradicate his biggest threat just because Dean has this _feeling_ just isn't going to cut it. With someone like the boy king of hell, it's on the same level as a death wish.

Dean forgoes the quick shower, even though it's something he feels he needs in order to warm up, and snatches up the overcoat draped across the back of a creaky chair. Pelting rain batters at the rusty window; the building sways and rasps weakly under its force. He pauses to watch a trail of black water trickle down the sill. _(doesnt look like its going to let up any time soon) _The weather doesn't seem to want to cooperate, and although cheesy things like this don't normally work this way, Dean can't help but take it as a bad omen.

A gentle invisible nudge between his shoulder blades sends him staggering abruptly. He careens into the wobbly desk and catches his thigh on the corner before he can regain his balance. As he curses and rubs at the sharp ache, Sam's rumble whispers again in his ear with a creepily child-like anticipation. Also like a naïve little kid, he sounds not one bit sorry.

_Ready yet?_

"Wha – wait, hang o –"

_Let's go!_

Dean has just enough time to lunge for the knife under his pillow before he feels the familiar cold tug on his insides and black rolls across his vision in waves.

- - -

_Sam slept through the entire night uninterrupted, under the garish sheets of the closest motel Dean could find. Morning soon rolled in on heavy clouds, breaking dimly through the loose curtains, and still Sam slept on. Dean took a break from his tense vigil by Sam's bed to wash off the memories of the night before, and when he returned in a puff of steam Sam was still very much dead to the world. He wondered at the significance of it but quickly shook himself, thinking he was only making something out of really nothing._

_Dried blood coated Sam's pale shirt and hair, flaky but staining all the same. Dean twitched at the sight of it, but he didn't have the heart to wake Sam just to relieve his own discomfort, no matter how well founded. So he let Sam sleep._

_Dean leaned over his brother for a moment, running calloused fingers through the limp hair and smoothing it away from the lined forehead in comfortable, practiced motions. He rubbed his thumb in circles over the creases and watched as the tenseness temporarily faded from Sam's young face. It offered some comfort, to one brother if not both. Dean scrubbed a hand across his own tired features, vaguely considering whether or not he should go out to get some food in case Sam woke hungry. _

_His stomach decided for him, complaining startlingly loud in the rough silence. Dean quickly scribbled a nearly illegible note on the motel writing pad and ended it with a large "D", knowing Sam would somehow be able to decipher it. That, of course, depended on how lucid he would be, or if he was conscious enough to realize Dean was absent at all. Dean shrugged gingerly into a jacket and tugged on his boots, taking his time with the laces. His stomach growled mutinously at him to hurry it up._

_As the door scratched open, Dean's head turned back involuntarily to check on his brother's still, slumbering form. Sam looked unusually small and young. Some instinct in Dean screamed at him not to leave him alone, even if it was just a five-minute food run. His stomach rumbled again; it was painfully empty. _

_Dean shut the door gently and made sure to double-check the lock before jogging hastily to the diner across the street. _(always across the street – so convenient)_ His foot jiggled impatiently and his teeth caught on his lower lip as the waitress politely asked him to, "Wait a few minutes while we get your order ready, all right sir?" She tried to catch his eye as she said so, but Dean's gaze had already wandered back to the motel, where it stayed glued until a greasy-bottomed paper bag plopped down in front of him. He blindly fished a twenty from his wallet and threw it on the table, muttering to the girl something about change. _

_Dean burst out the glass door and left the poor bell chiming madly. He crossed the street in a flash of angry horns and "Watch where the hell you're going pal". He fumbled with the key, juggling between the bag and the fussy number card keychain. Then he paused. And listened._

_There was a quiet agitated rustling from within the room and a duet of murmurs humming gently over it. One was distressed and familiar, the answering voice soothing and unwelcome. Dean's jaw tightened, the skin around his eyes tensed. He braced himself before twisting the key viciously into the knob and flinging the door ajar._

"What are you doing here," _It wasn't so much a question as a demand._

_Soft brown waves whipped around as oily black slid into place out of startled habit. Twin pits were instantly replaced by dull brown as recognition filtered through the oval face. _"Dean," _the sickly sweet voice, so out of place, scraped at his ears. _"It's so nice to see you, too,"_ accompanied an equally sweet smile. Her hand rested on Sam's dropping shoulders._

_Dean's grinding teeth clicked loudly in the unnatural quiet that followed. Ruby shifted under the heat of his stare, strangely uneasy and unaggressive. Her eyes alighted on the bag hanging limply between his rigid fingers._

"That for me? Thanks. Flying in to save the day gives a girl an appetite. Hope you got some fries,"_ the empty snark clunked hollowly. Dean's fingers clenched in a white-knuckled fist. Ruby's shifting eyes darted restlessly to Sam's slack-jawed, slumped position._

"What. Are you. Doing here," _Dean could barely shove the words past his locked jaws._

_Ruby's hand twitched on Sam's shoulder; a muscle ticked in her cheek. Sam's foggy gaze stayed fixed on his limp fingers. Dean glared at them both. With no answer forthcoming, he let his anger boil over and he surged into the room. Dean heaved the greasy bag down, advancing on Ruby with a murderous expression._

"Get. The hell. Out," _He didn't need anyone barging in here and assuming they needed company while they hid away to lick their wounds. And he certainly didn't need _her_, of all _things – _a demon._

_Ruby's face tightened fractionally at his tone. Her chin tilted up stubbornly and her eyes glinted demonic black. _"You need my help,"_ she announced. _"Whether you like it or not,"_ Her hand stayed anchored to Sam's shoulder, Sam who hadn't made a sign he could hear or understand what was going on. Sam, who might not even be fully conscious and was already being manipulated by a demon._

"Like hell we do. Leave."_ Dean leaned forward to tower over her. She only glared back, unimpressed._

"Sam just killed those idiot angels, and in case your thick head hasn't noticed, he's not in the greatest shape," _her voice was hard, business-like. _"And if that wasn't just peachy-keen perfect, both sides are gunning for you two and Lilith is already on the fifty-eighth seal. I'd say the scales are way beyond tipped," _She straightened her back, forcing Dean to shift his stance slightly. _"You need all the help you can get,"_ She held his gaze, daring him to contradict her._

_Dean snarled down in her face, oblivious of her apparent show of power. _"Leave."

"Or what?"

_Dean growled low in his throat, his hand flashing out to grab hold of her arm. He jerked her to her feet, fully intending to shove her through the door, telekinetic demon or not. He didn't need a scheming skank from hell imposing on his family. It was _his_ responsibility, _his_ family, _his_ brother. She was just an intruder._

_A soft sound behind them stopped him. Dean's head jerked automatically to his brother. Sam had decided to suddenly come to life at that moment, a protest gurgling at the back of his throat and his large hands reaching up to wrap themselves around Ruby's bicep. _"No,"_ he said in a defeated, lost voice. _"Stay,"

_Dean's heart stuttered to a standstill. _"Sam," _he choked. He released the demon, fingers stretching towards his brother. Sam flinched away and Dean recoiled, stung. Ruby stood between them, expressionless. _"Sammy,"

"Ruby," _Sam's torn expression cut harshly, but it wasn't directed at him. Ruby remained where she was, with a placating look on her face. She smiled almost tenderly, comfortingly. Dean backed away slowly, numb and invisible to the other occupants of the room._

_His fingers soon found the knob behind his back. The need to get out was suddenly overwhelming, and he shoved past the splintered wood to the blinding light outside._

_The door fumbled shut and the murmurs resumed almost immediately after, leaving Dean out in the cold with the lone Impala. His steadfast, sweet, loyal Impala. She never left, not if she could help it. Her smooth frame tempered this… whatever it was; just enough that, when his knees buckled under its giddy hammer, he was able to steady himself and clear his thumping head against her flawless metal. It was a cold and stale kind of comfort that made him wish he could afford something stronger than cheap beer, but he wasn't his father, and this was one of the things Dean didn't want tacked on to his title of _John Winchester's Son_. Stupid title that it was. He hated it all._

- - -

The first five houses are empty. Not one is even habitable. Even though it's what Dean had expected – and really, he should know better by now; why should today be any different than all the rest? – he can't help but feel the same, nearly crushing disappointment he'd tamped down on that first day of searching. With each dead home, all littered with dirt and the shadowed echoes of the residents' former lives, with every abandoned room, the tiny bulb of the hope he allows himself to build fades away to dust, blown away like his footprints across lonely patios.

But each and every single time, Dean lets that gentle flutter grow. And it glows so bright, before sputtering out at the sight of a dusty toy car half buried between upturned floorboards, or a baby's moonlit crib, trampled. It must take some kind of retard-genius, to willingly set himself up for disappointment or failure, or more often that not, both.

Dean's heavy work boots scuff across the previously gleaming tile floor that arches up into a graceful oval ceiling with a lustrous tinkling chandelier that must have been the pride of this particular homeowner; now it's all disgracefully filthy. His stomach coils uncomfortably and he sneezes, staring morosely up at the chipped glass. There was a childish little illusion once cradled in his heart, that wealth provided safety just as much as family and rock salt. Looking around the tarnished ruin, so _empty_, Dean can't remember how he could ever come up with something so far from the truth.

He moves on.

And he wonders a bit vaguely if Sam's having as much luck with his quest for Lilith. Whatever. It's not like he cares, right?

Of course.

Dean's footsteps echo along the massive marble hallways. The sound bounces back at him like a stabbing heartbeat. It punches at his ears with a determined force, like it knows he's weakening, and the faded pearl white looms over him, an endless path he's doomed to walk. With each pulse his resolve diminishes, inch by inch, until he can barely move under his own grief.

Who does he think he's kidding anyhow? Does he really believe that someone could survive? Even in the midst of defiance, a stain of doubt creeps in like a poison. Dean has neither seen nor heard from a fellow human being in months. Long months of fruitless searching and gambling with the vague possibility that there might be someone else left in the world, every moment spent hating those deep, grinning yellow eyes, and what has it gotten him?

_(zip. zilch. nada)_

Dean scratches his tired eyes with the base of his palm and hefts the duffel higher on his shoulder. The hallway stretches out for an eternity before him, but all things have an end. Don't give up. Number four on the Winchester list of rules to live by.

The off-white walls come to an abrupt halt, interrupted by the crack of large mahogany doors. No doubt they'd been extremely expensive back in the day when people were still around to use them. Now it's just a piece of crap wood, probably filled with termites. The door closest to him is already open, and Dean takes a cursory glance at the dusty hinges, seeing that rusted together. He pokes his head into the room cautiously.

And suddenly sees stars.

Dean rears back in alarm, the edge of his right brow smarting. A second fist flies out at him. His hand comes up to block automatically. The thin arm doesn't recoil fast enough, and Dean grabs it and swings the assailant around him. The frail body is thrown forcibly against the wall with a dull thud and a shower of dirt. "What –"

Pale, washed-out blue gapes up at him from behind a pair of skewed, delicate frames.

"— the hell?"

Dean blinks rapidly at the uncomprehending gaze inches from his face. Frozen shock plays across the pale, quivering face – an odd look Dean hasn't seen on anyone since… well. And that's what makes Dean pause.

The old man's harsh gasps are the only thing Dean can hear above the rush of blood through his ears and his heart pumps faster with the thought. The thought that maybe… maybe… could…?

"Cristo," he croaks, hardly daring to hope. His heart thuds a hollow rhythm against his ribs. Time seems to halt; he feels cold.

The man's shocked expression wipes clean, turning to confusion. He stares blankly, and Dean can see his own aching wonder reflected in the cloudy blue – human, has to be human – depths. Dean watches him intently, his cynical side asking snidely why he deserves something like this _(like what? deliverance?)_, now of all times. "What?" the man rasps, his voice weak and cracking from long disuse. "No, my – my name's Aaron,"

Dean can only stare.

Then a disbelieving huff of laughter bursts out of him. The man still trapped against the wall starts a little at the harsh barking sound; it sounds even more foreign to Dean. A grin cuts across his face, razor sharp and so wide his cheeks hurt. The heavy anvil that has been slowly crushing the air out of him eases off his chest, leaving him breathless, and suddenly the future doesn't seem so bleak or lonely after all. Dean laughs again, a high-pitched relieved sound that he's sure he's never heard before, least of all coming from him.

He could hug this guy, this dusty, scared, utterly _human_ stranger, Dean really, really could. He – he doesn't even know. This is so surreal. As he stares down at the man's shaking form and wide eyes however, giving the poor guy a bear hug is probably not the best second impression Dean wants to make anyway. He'll have to save his mounting euphoria for later. _(patience, young grasshopper)_ So he settles for normal – or as normal as he can get in a situation like this.

"Hi," he says, releasing the man _(aaron) _and taking a step back with a gentler version of the smile he hasn't cracked in going on a year. A bubble of insane joy rises in him and floods his pores. He feels like he can do anything, any damn thing at all. _(im not alone)_

"My name's Dean."

* * *

_Haha! Almost-cliff hanger! Sort of. Does that even count as one? Reviews are HUGELY appreciated. Like, majorly. Pretty please?_


	7. Chapter 7

_If it seems like I've abandoned this fic, I'm so sorry. Hope this makes up for the wait. I know it's a little slow paced (most of it is basically Dean angsting :)) so I tried to speed things up a bit. Did it work? Or did it seem too out of place?_

* * *

_The grave would be poorly made, unmarked, and too shallow to hide much for too long. The only trouble would be locating its exact spot amongst all the rose bushes that were planted throughout the yard, seemingly at random, like a forest of blood red. Symbolic. Sticky thorns cradled the silken petals, grabbing hold of his skin and leaving him with many a stinging scratch and itchy fingers. These he shrugged off with a thrust of his shoulder through clawing green, eyes scanning the dark ground with calculated ease._

_Honestly, though, Dean grumbled to himself as another branch threatened to tear a rip through his thick jacket, by all rights these stupid roses shouldn't even be there. An abandoned shack with rotting bark in the front and a paradise garden out back? A haunting if Dean ever saw one. And a pretty harmless one at that; maybe even benevolent, if all the pretty, pretty flowers were to be believed. But benign or not, a haunting was a haunting, and as debatable as it might have been, something would have happened eventually, Dean was sure of it. Ghosts and living people just didn't coexist peacefully forever. It was impossible. This one would have to go. Completely disregard the fact that this particular shack is out in the middle of Nowheresville. _(come on; im bored)_ Besides, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do, now was it?_

_It was frustrating, but he'd been running out of things to hunt lately. Slowly, the jobs he'd taken _(alone)_ had dwindled to a trickle of sporadic, small-time disturbances he could practically finish in his sleep. Even those soon became few and far apart. There was a dreaded thought in the back of his mind that contemplated the idea of… _(retirement? gah, kill me now and dump the ashes) _Dean suspected the lack of decent hunts might have had something to do with Sam and whatever junk he was getting himself into, but he preferred to dump all the blame on the demon company his brother was hanging with these days. _(that bitch)

_A branch took advantage of Dean's distraction to whip him across the face, trailing a track of hot welts. He sputtered and flailed, spat out a few razor-edged leaves too, to his chagrin. Once he righted himself to his satisfaction, he grudgingly returned to the thankless task at hand. He huffed a sigh. These jobs just got more tedious and repetitive by the minute. _(never thought id say it, but huntings getting to be a drag) S_till, Dean shrugged to himself; it served as a pretty decent stress-reliever. And damn it all if he didn't need it. _

_It was at that exact moment that his foot came down on something unexpectedly smooth and round. And, as legs have the bad habit of doing when confronted by things both round and smooth, Dean's slid out from beneath him, effectively landing him on his ass with a jarring clack of teeth. He groaned aloud. _(jesus, i feel old)_ He turned his flashlight onto the cause of his clumsiness with a grimace. His other hand crept to his back to rub a particularly sore spot. The beam lit on a gleaming sphere jutting from beneath the soil like a piece of treasure. It was a skull, half decayed and peppered with bits and pieces of rotting flesh. No doubt if he got too close, the stench would be enough to knock him out cold. _(hmm. typical)_ Dean shrugged to himself; one man's dead thing, another man's career choice. _

_He nudged the white skull until the light shone on a thin fissure stretching from a shattered cheek bone, up around the side of the head. The line thickened as it went, until the top of the skull where the bone caved in completely in the shape of a triangle. A few dull red strands of wispy hair clung stubbornly at the base, the tip of the spinal chord looked twisted and out of place._

"Yahtzee,"_Dean breathed. A smile snuck across his face. _

_The flashlight clicked off. His duffle dropped to the ground with a clatter of metal and nearly-hollow cans. He'd brought the shovel as a precaution, but by the looks of things—he worked the shiny white skull from out of the semi-firm soil and twisted it around till he could see the empty sockets, cracked and accusing—all he would really have to do would be to pull out a few bones and dust off the rest. Easy._

_Yeah. "Easy."_

"_Easy" took about four hours, give or take a few minutes, each passing second more exhasperating than the last. Any second now, the sun would even begin peeking out from behind the horizon. And he'd started pretty early, too. Dean was beginning to consider just giving up and letting some other poor hunter deal with the consequences. The thought certainly held some appeal._

_Dean swiped at the sweat tickling his eye with his dirty forearm, leaning back on his heels as his stiff back ached in protest. He eyed his handiwork critically._

_A pile of dirt-smeared bones and shredded pieces of decayed clothing lay in semi-disarray to his left while a deep trench lay to his right. His fingers twitched in frustration. The stupid roses were getting in the way. Dean's scowl deepened. And no amount of prodding was going to budge those damn roots._

_He stared at the mess foliage for a second, seriously mulling over the thought of quitting. Then he had one of those light bulb moments, and a crazed grin overtook his face. _

_Ten minutes later, he had all his gear packed in the trunk and a self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he revved the engine and high-tailed it out of that godforsaken dump. A plume of smoke trailed up towards the sky behind him, and he could see the bright orange flames licking hungrily at the tiny shack in the rear view mirror, charred rose petals floating down with ash. Behind it, the sun began it's climb up the dusty pink sky. He laughed out loud, a laugh that came out more like a cackle. A part of him stepped back to eye the stranger with his face warily, wondering if he'd finally gone off the deep end. Naturally, Dean ignored that particular thought. He snorted gleefully and gunned the engine till it roared and made his ears ring. She sounded just as juiced as he did and it brought out another roll with laughter. _

(never liked roses much anyway)

"Whoo!"

_It was a glorious day to be alive._

- - -

Within the first ten minutes of meeting, after Dean's blood calms and Aaron, the poor guy, quits wheezing, a few details dust off and make themselves apparent. One is that Aaron _(last name Thomas, retired groundskeeper, and proud father of a graduate from… standford law—figures, dont it?)_ is far too trusting and agreeable by half. He gestures for Dean to follow with nary a wary glance, and acts as if finally greeted by salvation, as if Dean is somehow the answer to all his problems, instead of something else entirely. Dean knows all too well how easily this momentary lapse of good luck could slip and slide back to the opposite, and he's afraid the old man's faith was damned from the start.

"Um… here's the uh… the—kitchen," Aaron stammers, eyes darting nervously and frequently to his guest. Dean can't help but note that the unquestioning trust has turned into something else. The other man fidgets, watching Dean intently, as if this might all be in his imagination, each wide-eyed glance a confirmation that he is, indeed, not going crazy and this is the real thing. "Would you, like any… thing—?" Aaron gestures vaguely in the direction of his sparse kitchen counter, where a dented tea kettle, a pot, and an assortment of eating utensils lie haphazardly strewn across the dusty granite. A half panicked smile rushes across his face, disbelief still distinctly evident in the corners of the expression.

Dean knows the same look is mirrored on his own features, though he's trying not to reveal too much. "I—oh," he coughs uncomfortably, one hand stretching unconsciously to rub the back of his neck. _(well. isnt this—lovely?)_ He grins shakily at his host, faintly embarrassed. "Sure, um. Got any coffee?"

Aaron breaths a nervous laugh and nods, turning away with obvious relief. Dean can't help the sigh that escapes him; it evaporates like steam, and he feels shaky. He is suddenly completely exhausted, his sinuses achy. The beginnings of a headache worm its way into his forehead, and he is slightly daunted with the prospect of spending hours alone with a stranger. _(i dont have the energy to make friends right now)_

It's like they don't know what to do with each other, Dean realizes as they tiptoe around each other cautiously. Praying and wishing for someone _(human)_ in the midst of loneliness is one thing. Putting long-forgotten theories to test is on a completely different playing field. After all, Aaron haunted a lonely marble castle for a year, and Dean's been wandering around the remains of the former America with a troupe of hellions. He supposes neither situation would really encourage the development, or practice, of social skills. Whatever those were.

He wonders who he is without masks and guards and walls shielding every turn—a fake personality built on an actor's grin. And he wonders who this man sees in the grim-faced stranger standing so still behind him, barely breathing, raw emotions bitten to the bone. Can he see them? Dean himself doesn't know who he is when there's no one left to act for; his audience is gone, and the script cut him off in the last act. He doesn't know how this will end; no specific options have been left to him this time around.

"Don't mind, do you?" Aaron imposes hesitantly, tapping the worn, dim-colored kettle. Dean's not sure what he means by that, but shakes his head mutely, discomfort spiking at the movement. You could almost call it pain. He is still unable, and somewhat unwilling, to conjure any speck of his old charm—however forced it'd been—and he shies away from the uncomfortable smile Aaron forces onto his lips. They stand in silence, carefully distanced and awkward. The only sound is of a match being struck. Aaron ducks the flame beneath the tin kettle before waving it away in a faint scar of smoke.

"Electricity's been down since the beginning," he explains to Dean in a scratchy voice. He shakes his head to himself and falls silent again, leaving Dean to speculate. What happened, Dean wants to ask. What was it like, not knowing why this was happening, not understanding, and despairing at the cruelty, but choosing to see this life through anyway? Questions pound at his head in throbbing succession. Dean wishes he could just open his mouth and spit out everything he's been bottling up the past months but his jaw somehow locks itself, and he can't seem to make it move. _(coward)_ He looks anywhere but at the hunched man before the old stove. Aaron returns the courtesy with a tactfulness that makes Dean's stomach twist.

He fights the itch to fidget creeping over his limbs. He can see Aaron standing motionless out of the corner of his eye, a mourning statue. The haze of euphoria and utter, _utter_ relief of finding another real, demon-free human being has worn off by now. It's as if Dean's now more prominent cynical side refuses to let him get too comfortable with that much optimism. As if to say, it'll all be ripped away soon enough—why invest so much to begin with? It won't be worth the trouble in the end.

And Dean is beginning to believe in that snide voice from some deep crevice of his mind. He can't afford such a hopeful attitude on life _(isnt much of a life anymore, anyway)_; look how much it's cost him already. Think of how much it is going to take from him.

- - -

_Riding high on the "success" of his "hunt", Dean pulled the Impala to a stop in front of their motel room. He stepped out jauntily, quietly grinning to himself. If he could, he'd whistle. To be honest, he didn't quite understand his sudden good mood, but it was the best he'd felt in a long while, and he'd take what he'd get. There hadn't been much to smile about as of late._

_He'd left Sam snoring at his laptop yesterday to check out the rosebush thing on his own, since Sam had long since lost interest in those "trivial" hunts, and he was hoping his brother would still be asleep. At the very least, Dean was hoping his brother was still there. Lately, Sam had taken to disappearing for days at a time, leaving Dean to sulk alone and wonder whether or not he'd ever see his brother again. So far, Sam had come back. But every time he felt farther and farther away._

(only a matter of time…)

_Dean hated inevitabilities. _

_He shuffled up the curb, feeling his exhaustion catch up with him now that the adrenaline had worn off. The anticipation of a nice warm shower made him uncomfortably antsy. He dug through his pocket for the key, uncovering more dirt than he was happy with, and fitted it clumsily into the lock before swinging the door open._

_What he found struck him utterly speechless, making his blood boil and his mind freeze, disgusted horror bringing up bile. _

_"_Sam?" _he could hardly recognize his own voice._ "What—are you_—_?"

_- - -_

Fifteen minutes ago, Dean might have told you he could save the universe with nothing more than his favorite pistol and a bespectacled, crooked-backed old man standing behind him—a poor replacement for the real thing. _(taller, shaggier hair, hunched back because he hates towering over people, puppy eyes that make old ladies melt) _Fifteen minutes ago it was like he'd been given a second chance at everything—a do over. Someone somewhere hadn't _really _given up on him, like he'd originally thought when the whole world literally went to hell. That same someone was opening a new door for Dean to step through and somehow end up the victorious hero. Now he could fix this.

Or so he thought. Fifteen revealing minutes later, he can only picture all the horrible, bloody ways this could all come crashing down on him, throwing him lower than he even wanted to think about. _(optimism is overrated. so, for that matter, is hope) _Besides, all of _this_ only translates into one more thing for Dean to worry about on top of everything else on his mind, current raging headache included. Dean doesn't want to spend the rest of his life babysitting some old guy. He sighs to himself, unsure where the harsh thoughts are coming from.

A piercing whistle yanks him painfully back. Brief agony jabs behind his eyes, and his vision explodes white for a barely controls the involuntary jerk, and he just catches the hand in its twitch toward the gun resting at the small of his back _(paranoid much?)_. He exhales slowly in an attempt to bring himself back together as Aaron turns away with a crack of aching bones and the kettle's shriek dies down, wailing.

"Sugar?" Aaron croaks over his shoulder. Dean shakes his head, the movement makes the room spin, and then realizes the man's back is still turned. "Nah," he says, clearing his throat. Then he pauses to wonder whether this habit of black coffee is his own or one imitated and copied from his father, just like so many other things in his life.

He takes the steaming mug from Aaron's knobby fingers and seats himself at the little round table in the center of the kitchen. The coffee scalds a stripe down his throat, almost like he's drinking liquid fire, and it tastes more like metal than coffee. He's not more than a quarter done when Aaron quickly refills the mug, eager to please. Steam rises between them like a fog, and Dean is grateful for the shield.

His eyes throb fiercely, and Dean wishes the silence would swallow him up so he could be done with this mess of complications. Since fate would never be so kind to a Winchester, he settles for letting the mug shadow his vision and the coffee burn off his taste buds. It's almost easy to pretend he's still alone moping over the state of the world, and not being childishly petulant and ungrateful. _(what the hell is wrong with me?)_

But what is he supposed to do now? By some twist of bizarre luck, he's finally found what he's been looking for, but hotheaded as he'd always been, Dean hadn't thought past that. Now he's stuck in a situation full of regrets and shouldn't-haves. _(like thats anything new)_ His forehead throbs again.

"Too watery?" the timid voice jolts him out of his self-pity. It takes all his self control not to jump at the tiny sound. When he looks up, Aaron is watching him with a curious look, though it dips towards concern when Dean just stares blankly.

"Pardon?"

"The coffee," Aaron explains. "It's not the best, is it?" He says it apologetically, misunderstanding the light grimace on Dean's face. "I'm sorry. I've just gotten so used to it, so… you know. Hey—are you okay?"

Dean only grunts in response, his teeth clenched. The throbbing in his head has reached its peak, and his eyes water in pain. He blinks frantically. There's a loud clang by his foot, and Dean realizes he's dropped his mug. Scalding hot liquid splashes down his pant leg, but that pain is overpowered by the agonized pounding behind his eyes. He can hardly breathe. Distantly, he hears a voice as if from far away, calling or yelling or… something. Suddenly, the pain shoots up and takes Dean under.

Images flicker across his vision, too fast to see, whirling colors and flashes of blinding lights. There's a roaring in his ears that blocks out all other sound. He can't move, and the only thing keeping him from panicking is the memory of Cold Oak nearly three years ago.

_Dean? Where are you?_

Sam's voice hisses in his ears, leaving echoes in his head, as if they are calling to each other across a deep canyon. Dean's senses are filled with the stink of sulphur and ozone, and a heavy presence settles on his mind. It feels too much like suffocation.

_(sam? dude, what the hell?)_

_Dean, I know who Lilith is possessing. Stay away from him._

_(wait—what? him? sam—what does that—) _

An image flashes behind his eyes; for the briefest moment Dean sees the form of a man, standing rigid and tall, eyes glowing an unearthly, milky white. It is a far cry from Lilith's favored meat suits—the ones with pitails and Sunday church frocks that smile innocently, and tinkle a laugh while they tear you to bits—but it still holds that same unnerving quality that marks Lilith as the possessor. The image flickers and disintegrates, bursting into a shower of fading dust leaving white spots imprinted on backs of his eyelids. The heavy weight crushing his senses slowly lifts, fading, and along with it, the echoes of the soft hissing voice and the muggy stench of demons.

Back in the real world, Dean gasps, jerking back to himself. He gulps air like he's drowning, his head spinning, he is disorientated. He's on the ground, he notes vaguely, still not able to get enough oxygen to fully function. His eyes burn with the afterthought of the forced vision and his jaw aches with tension. Dean looks up, squinting at the harsh light that beats down on his eyes and blinking to clear his blurry sight; his spine feels uncomfortably stiff. A silhouette bears down over him, big and black and eerily familiar. Dean can see the edges of the ceiling light spiking around the hard lines of the figure. Something nags at the back of his mind, sending chills of unease racing along his neck. _(whats with the d__éjà vu?) _

"Uh—Dean? What happened? You okay?" Light glints off the twin strips of narrow glass. The likeness makes Dean's blood freeze. His mind makes the connection with a click that was surely audible. He viciously shoves down the panic that surges in him.

"Dean—that is your name, right?"

He struggles with the similarities. But it couldn't _(come on, what are the chances?)_—coincidences like that just don't happen. Unless it isn't one.

The figure looms closer—menacingly, almost—and Dean can't help the flinch, horror settling in him, a huge boulder rocking against his center. He ignores the concern _(fake) _lurking in those murky blues hovering above him. Dark fear makes his limbs unbearably heavy, and it's all he can do to just _breathe. _There's no way out of this, Dean can see that. No point in trying to delude himself. Besides, he's is all out of bravado; that couldn't save him now anyway.

"Are you alright?"

The voice is soothing, still hiding behind the thin film of shyness, but full to the brim with worry—every bit the concerned host, played to perfection. _(and i cant believe i actually bought it)_ Dean's expression hardens, he tucks away his bitter disbelief and anger at his own stupidity_—_any flicker of betraying emotion_—_and he raises his eyes to meet his fate head-on, resigned but defiant. It is too late for any last minute saves. And Dean is sure there's no going back or second chances this time. His insides seethe _(toolatetoolatetoolategoddamnit!)_ and the silent realization thuds in his head, so obvious he can't believe he didn't see it before.

The man from the vision—Lilith—is Aaron.

* * *

_Cliffhanger(s)! Honestly, it's just because I'm lazy. Hopefully, in the next chap, we'll actually have things happening. Just a warning: Since you have all undoubtedly already witnessed my rididulous slowness, then you know that it'll be a while before that update. Sorry 'bout that :)_


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